


i light the fire with no guarantees (ash will rain over me)

by SilverCeleb



Category: One Piece
Genre: Aroace Vivi, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Drabble Collection, Gardens & Gardening, Gen, Geography, Grief/Mourning, Maps, Marco cries so much, Mental Health Issues, Metaphors, Past Character Death, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Marineford, Prompt Fill, Responsibility, platonic marriage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:20:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27251842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverCeleb/pseuds/SilverCeleb
Summary: Pirates happen. Luffy happens.A collection of (mostly) gen fic prompts and other short ficlets. Mostly canon complaint, not entirely spoiler free.
Relationships: Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks & Benn Beckmann, Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco & Benn Beckmann, Kohza&Nefertari Vivi, Mugiwara Kaizoku | Strawhat Pirates & Nefertari Vivi
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	1. a hundred leaders would be borne of you

**Author's Note:**

> So there is this really cool server full of ppl who are amazing and kind and so talented!! What a place! Also a place to be inspired and productive, here are some of the results.

Responsibility, she learns when she is still young enough to swing her legs when sitting on her chair eating watermelon ice, responsibility is one of those things she must carry.

It seems heavy yet distant. Her mother had carried her responsibility to her country: given birth to a successor. Her father still carried his, the entire weight of her people on his shoulders.

And in time, Miss Terracotta says, Vivi will inherit that responsibility from her parents. And carry it with a smile. Because she is a princess, and a princess must be many things to earn the love and respect of her people. Not to worry, her people already love their blue desert flower, shining like sky from the golden sand.

Vivi thinks she’d much rather carry a kingdom on her shoulders for a lifetime than a new person inside her belly for nine months.

Miss Terracotta chuckles and tells her that she will change her mind when she meets the right person.

Vivi picks the seeds from the watermelon pieces.

Not likely.

  
  
  


(World, things, misfortunates, conflicts - happen. Violence happens. _Crocodile_ happens. So many things happen, that Vivi can barely focus on surviving. She learns to carry her father's responsibilities, in her own way. She learns how to keep breathing with the crushing pressure of an entire island kingdom and its future on her shoulders.

Nobody demands her to fulfill her mother’s role, not when she is in essence fighting a war. And she almost, almost forgets.

Pirates happen. _Luffy_ happens.

Vivi thinks she herself happens too, and maybe she learns to trust others to carry some of her burden.)

Responsibility, Vivi learns when she is two months shy of 18 and sitting at the table with her father, far too tall to swing her legs anymore, responsibility does not forget.

Her father is dear to her, family and support, love and guidance. Her father is also the king of Alabasta and Vivi is the princess. The future queen.

Father brings it up like one would a matter of state. And, like it or not, Vivi’s marriage is a matter of state. Nefertiti crown prince or princess gets married the year they are 18, not sooner and not later.

She is given a say in it, of course, their people have never been that backwards about things. It is traditional to marry someone who will strengthen the kingdom, complement the ruler with their temperament, skills, wisdom, charisma. The people of Alabasta look for a fairytale union, they want to see love blossom between their king and queen. Or queen and queen, her father adds as not quite an afterthought. There is still space to wiggle out of some traditions.

Vivi thinks she does well. She writes letters, attends tedious first meetings, wears her finest silks and brightest jewels. She smiles and carries this burden that suddenly feels heavier than anything she has had to shoulder before. She smiles. And smiles. 

She cries.

How could she choose? How could she want someone she feels in her soul is wrong? In addition to the letters she sends, she writes the ones she burns. The ones that are meant to a small crew sailing on the vast oceans, the ones where she is honest.

Pell catches her, of course, one evening when she has not quite yet dried her tears or the ink on paper. And it must be because of the way birds fly so far above the worries and rules and all the noise from ground below. It must be, because he sees her from miles above more clearly than her father or Igaram or Miss Terracotta or anyone else, and he asks her why she is looking for someone she is in love with when she could find someone she likes.

In the end it is simple.

The Alabasta after war is filled with motherless children and what better way to bring together a vision of a fair future than to unite the ones who fought for it?

Vivi asks Kohza to be her best friend and husband.

Kohza says yes, and Vivi knows she has the perfect partner to carry responsibility with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was Vivi + responsibility and the theme song for this is Porter Robinsons Sad Machine!


	2. to grow from green to greener

Coby’s father is a gardener.

He sows and trims and cuts and weeds and mows and digs and waters and prunes. His hands are rough with work and nails dull from picking fallen leaves from gravel. His hands know how to hold a tender sapling and they know how to cut down mighty oaks.

He takes Coby with him once Coby is tall enough to reach the first step of the tractor ladder. And Coby learns too. How to bury seeds in the soil, how to remove spent flowers, how to remove the central root of a dandelion with a farmer's dagger. He learns to softly caress the petals of summer flowers, to clip the edges of a lawn until every blade of grass is perfectly even.

Where Coby’s father works, every green thing thrives in an orderly manner. Grass is short, trees are tall, flowers in bloom, beetroots in even rows, soil is black.

Coby’s big brother is book smart and their little sister has a sweet smile but bites with sharp teeth. Coby is the middle child, and as people in their village say, “to be born as a middle child is to be born without teeth”. To learn to bite late or never. To be aimless, to be surplus. Never the first, but not the last either.

Coby knows middle children get their neat and even place in the garden, that he will grow into a trimmed shrub, maybe even a blooming hydrangea. He knows that his parents will cultivate their child carefully, weed out any bad manners, water him with lectures of love, plant him in as deep soil as possible.

He will never be a mighty oak, or a flashy seasonal flower. But like all green things he craves sunlight. Coby craves dreams, meaning, purpose like sunlight.

His father is a gardener.

His father’s son is a marine.

And as Coby stands amongst other white uniforms he remembers what rows and rows of vegetables, hedges, neatly trimmed shrubs looked like in his father’s garden. He thinks he has finally found his place.

(He asks his father once why plants couldn’t just grow like they wanted, like they did in the wild where forests had a place for every strange weed and flower. His father had looked amused but not in the way that made Coby feel small, just in a _dad way_.

“Because people do not tolerate nature unfiltered. We do not mingle well, wild forests and us. We like to shape things to be orderly, neat, comfortable and logical. Wild things scare us and that’s why we tame them, be they wolves or forests.”

And after meeting Luffy Coby thinks he gets it. Wild things were for wild creatures. Gardens were for people, and Luffy was an entire jungle.

Coby may be a garden grown species but he thinks he might grow to be wild, after all.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was Coby + growth! A good one, I think!


	3. words swim slowly into the center of the earth

As time passes by terrain may shift. What once was solid ground will drown in saltwater, what once were flat and eventless horizons may now be crested with mountains. Less travelled roads grow over with weeds and eventually lose their forms while new shortcuts bisect the scenery with muddy footprints.

Cities rise and fall. Forests grow and burn, entire islands are born from volcanic eruptions. Deep ravines open and swallow up what once were peaceful valleys. Rivers meander, deep to shallow to deep. The world has never been static.

Maps do not move.

It irritates her first, to no end. That her work could be made undone by something as simple as the natural order of things, as complicated as human hands, and the things she once knew to be would no longer hold true. How the countless hours she spends with her tools, recording the slightest curve of a reef, measuring the depths and altitudes to mark them precisely as they appear, it all might just - be wasted.

It may be because it is back, well, back when she herself is _forced_ to change. She chooses the shape she is reborn as, of course, but nevertheless she has to stop being one thing and become another.

She has to ink it on her skin, write over old terrain with new, and make herself a map that will remain unchanging - for now.

(There are some things Nami would change if she could. A few things, little things, important things.

Not too many things. She must be selfish, or maybe not, for wanting it all to have happened the way it did. If she had never lost her very first family, she would never have had a sister with the sharpest tongue and kindest arms. If her only real mother had never been almost dying on a battlefield, she would have never had a home filled with chores and the scent of citrus fruits.

If there had been no Arlong pirates, there would have been no idiots. Well, there would have been idiots, there always was, but there wouldn’t have been _her_ idiots.)

Now that it may be that she has become an uncharted terrain herself, reformed with earthquakes and erosion, made solid, sunken, wiped clean with ice ages of snow, she likes to think there must be a purpose for maps that no longer are precise.

It was her, again, who chose a new shape for herself, rewrote the old ink with new and _erased past herself_ with determination and courage. But this time it was because she had been offered the new path, with a red ribbon on yellow straw, with her own tears finally dried.

Luffy makes her come undone with something as simple as human hands, as complicated as the natural order of all things.

Ink on paper does not change. What has been marked down, recorded, measured to the last detail, it will remain unchanged for as long as the paper will carry the markings on it. The memories of her that Nojiko, Gen, people of her past hold in their hearts - those are the unchanged maps of her past self.

Would they recognize her with what new paths there now lay on her skin?

The thing that won’t change about her terrain is the landmark of her scenery. There is one thing that Nami knows will stay the same in the maps of their memories and in herself, one thing that will guide them back home to her when they meet again.

It’s a surefire way to safety, a signal of a lighthouse. It’s her smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was Nami + change, and i was really intrigued by permanence of maps vs. the change in our world.


	4. the shackles we carry as trophies will not hold us back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this ficlet contains dark themes, such as mental illness and suicidal thoughts. Canon level Law angst and some of his issues.

If the world was fair and right and logical as it should be, Trafalgar D. Water Law would _hate_ chains.

Admittedly, if that was the case, there would have been no reason for him to hate chains. Anyway, it was a moot point since the world was cruel and unjust, and Law was at best slightly apprehensive and at worst he was downright fascinated by them.

As far as restrictions go, Law has worn many kinds. Material and immaterial, those so tight he has almost choked to death and those loose enough to go unnoticed until the critical moment where it would paralyze him.

Most physical restraints, shackles, chains, iron bars, locked doors, and cuffs are usually easy enough to overcome. Unless made of seastone, that is.

It’s restraints like wooden treasure chests and invisible strings that cause him to pause, to steel himself for an oncoming attack, to clench his fists, to shake, shake, to puke, to not sleep for days, to fucking lose his breath, or _limbs_ , to lose his mind, lose _control_ -

No. No, he wouldn’t go there. It was in the past now, he had put it behind himself and somehow picked up any remaining pieces of himself and god fucking damned opened his eyes to another _day_. So what if he was pretty sure he would have assigned himself involuntary treatment at the nearest institution capable of holding him behind lock and a key if he were to treat himself like a patient.

(Nearest institution, the only one really, that came to mind was Impel Down. Not a viable option to get crisis counselling or treatment for mental trauma.)

But all restraints were not made of material things.

Those, Law had learned, were far harder to break. To even notice them one had to most often run at full speed into a glass wall, or see someone else do it. Law has seen plenty. Run, too, but there is a reason why he is still left when the people who have visited his life usually leave by running into the final glass wall.

Law desperately wants to be allowed the luxury of guilt when he uses the splintered glass from those lethal crashes to cut down all the strings around himself. Strings, yes, because that is what those invisible restrains that have held him back for years, decades even, are. Light enough to go unnoticed, elastic enough to stretch and stretch no matter how far he runs, strong enough to hang all the pirates of this age from.

(All but one.)

Tafalgar D. Water Law _hates_ strings.

But chains?

His father taught him about dna chains when he was still happy and whole (oh, and poisoned, already rotting from inside out). He told Law how a being was made of the knowledge coded into the double helix of deoxyribonucleic acid, each link of that chain more complex than science could yet comprehend.

How they also carried their ancestors in their bodies. He has maybe a bit of a complex, but he admits it, because Law often dreams that if given enough time he could slice into his own dna and find all of Fleavance in there, waiting to be restored.

It is of course only a dream, not a very coherent one at that. But the thought behind it, the thought of carrying the legacy of his birth country, that is what bothers Law. Because it makes sense, but in an awful way. He is the only link of this particular chain, and for years he was ready to be the last. And now he can’t quite let himself excuse killing all that is left of his family with himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was Law + shackles! What a treat!


	5. we were like brothers, i hoped it wouldn't have to end like this

With Pops, it had been easier.

Not easy, never easy. But easier, more sensible and in it’s own way lighter to carry. With Pops, it was an ending to a dear story, but the sort that felt right even if you cried until tears blurred the words and pages of the book were splashed with saltwater.

Marco is familiar with that. The saltwater, he means.

Marco wasn’t suicidal, that much was clear after the craving had first entered his thoughts and some deep urge to stay alive had reared its ugly (beautiful) head so abruptly that he had flinched from his own need to _keep living._

But after the war (wars) he cried. Took an accidental plunge into some icy waters exactly once too, was rescued by a highly annoyed fisher who demanded him to pay for the tangled nets. Had taken one look at his tattoo and almost tossed him back into the sea. Finally handed him a macrill or ten, folded into a tiny parcell and sent him back home.

And he had walked - these days Marco didn’t fly - the now familiar road, along the coastline and up, up to the hillside, then near the roots of the mountains. He had cooked one of the macrill over fire. He had steamed rice, peeled carrots carefully. He had poured a glass of fresh milk and sat down with his meal, and then he didn’t eat for however long it took him to stop crying.

He had thought about Ace, of course. The rest of them too, that should go by unmentioned at this point, but mostly Ace.

See, with Pops the story was ending anyways. But Ace’s story? It had barely even begun. There just hadn’t been enough _time_. With Ace it was like reading a book only to find out that after the prologue and first chapter there were only empty pages. Suspension built and…

Severed. Let go. Wasted.

There had been so much left for Ace to do, so many things to see and experience, so many adventures to be had. Friendships to be made. Ace had been the sort to live fully, but still Marco ached down to his very core for all the things Ace would never know.

Worse still, maybe, was that Ace had been alone for the months before his execution. As horrible as the last night he had shared with Pops' company had been, it was also one of the dearest treasures Marco had of his father. Bittersweet, one might claim.

Any goodbyes they had been able to have with Ace would have blood and smoke smeared over the memories.

But Marco was a simple man. He grieved his grief and wiped his tears. He remembered the family he once had and adjusted. There was no point in trying to give all the hours that now felt empty to a young man who had given his heart more light than any fire he now used to cook his food.

The macrill was cold but delicious. Maybe he would eat it more often now, now that he had only time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was Ace + time, chose Marco pow instead and ran with it. But it is still very Ace centric so I think it counts.


	6. you are not a boy with a wind vane as his heart

**a wind vane child**

noun [ei wind veyn chahyld]

**1 :** an offspring from fey realm, **2 :** a person who is restless and unhappy with their life to a point where they will change their life at any moment, **3 :** a person with great amounts of wanderlust

**See also:** _to turn their heart with the weather like a wind vane child, a wind vane child is born at the hour of monsters, yearn your heart out you boy with a wind vane as your heart_

**Origin:** Foosha Village

* * *

  
  


The Windmill Village, as its name would suggest, has made itself live from wind.

Luffy learns many sayings there that all have something to do with the wind the villagers have woven around themselves and their lives, their words.

The wind is the warmest element. Fire needs wind to blaze. Wind will reach the highest branches. Silent winds will let the waves sleep. One does not count their worth with unfavourable winds. This boy is a wind vane child if I’ve ever seen one!

He learns them all but when a boy has an empty head and full heart like Luffy? He hears them and knows the meaning of the words, even understands what all that means. But he does not live by them.

Luffy _likes_ warmth, but getting his toes wet and cold will not stop him from running in the rain. He will wear his winter coat if he remembers but he would rather just dash fast enough to not need it in the first place. Wind may well be the warmest one, but what does Luffy really need it for?

The campfire will burn brighter if one fans it diligently. And Luffy knows this, but he is not even allowed around lit fires, let alone try lighting one up! Even if he only burned himself three times! And charred Makino’s floor, but he helped clean up so it doesn’t count.

(Later, much later, Luffy wishes he had been the wind who kept a fire burning but. No matter how much a wind howls it can’t keep a fire burning alone.)

The wind that reaches Luffy when he climbs the highest tree in the village throws him right back down as if to teach him the meaning of the words he does not want to acknowledge. But Luffy refuses to learn this particular lesson, he is full of life and his body is made of rubber and born to bounce off of this kind of punishments - he reaches for high places _with_ the wind, after all.

The silent winds, those are not his thing either. For him, silence only exists as a space to fill with laughter, adventures, talking, yelling, odd gestures, movement, movement. Waves. The only moments Luffy chooses to spend silent are the ones he uses to sit on the figurehead and stare at the sea. But he will not close his eyes just to see nothing, he will not cease to be to let things settle. He has others who do that for him, and besides, things tend to settle only after he is long gone. That is fine too.

And what is worth? What is worth but love? Luffy finds his brothers and his nakama and all his friends from places deemed unworthy in one way or another, and he collects them despite any wind. Favourable or not he will push them forward, he will carry them himself if he must, and he will fight any and all storms to see them get through.

(He does not know yet the truth in that, for he _is_ the wind, again, and this time he should look around himself and see how he favours his protegees. But he is just a boy from Foosha Village who will sail the waters of the world and set fire to the waves with his wind, he is life with instincts about what he wants to be true and in that vision the world does fold away to reveal them all as equally worthy of life.)

The one he hears the most often is the one about his constitution, state of being, predicament, blessing, lot in life.

”This boy is a wind vane child if I’ve ever seen one!” they say, the villagers.

And Luffy thinks this to be true yet knows it to be wrong. Yes, he is restless. Yes, he will not hesitate to charge head first into the next adventure. Yes, he wants to go, can not wait to follow Shanks. In a way, he is foreign. After he eats the devil fruit he is no longer human, and that point gets proven even better.

But still, he does not quite fit into that definition either. The villagers just call him that because they have no other word for him. See, a wind vane child is in essence a person who yearns and turns as the wind dictates, but never flies with it. Never leaves to see what can not be seen from the highest point of it’s rooftop, only creaking and turning and turning and spinning in circles with useless inertia.

(Usopp might have been one, once, forever dreaming. Looking at the horizon from the edge of his island and hoping, hoping for his father to come back with the next gust of wind. But he broke his roof tiles when Luffy offered his hand and ship and home, taught him how to raise a sail and let his wind carry them both.)

Luffy does not yearn for things that won’t happen. He flies.

(see, a wind vane child is born at the hour of monsters. Luffy _is_ born a monster.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was Luffy + wind. This was a hard one for me and took some thinking, but here we go!


	7. this pale blue spill of a soulstain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so! This fic is actually a gen retelling of my other work (This Yellow Spill of a Soulstain), I wanted to be able to share this one with ppl who don't like shippy fics. I mostly failed in editing out Benn/Shanks content but in this fic it can be read as platonic romance or even queerplatonic life partnership if that's the preferred tea. And anyway, it's really in quite minor role in this one, this is more about Marco.
> 
> Some themes of the original fic did not translate into this version but the fundamental message is there: it hurts to lose your loved ones and it can be hard to receive consolation when you feel grieving is all you deserve.

_ sun pours out of us both _

_ we are cracked like morning _

_ this yellow spill of a soulstain reveals only _

_ truth - half truth - lie _

_ hidden from us in the waves is our secret _

_ i’m not a sun not a moon not the tide not reflection of you _

_ but my own person masquerading _

_ as an extension of you _

* * *

  
  
  


“I need your help.”

The railing of the Red Force drew a definitive line between Benn and the eternal nature of the sea. The voices of both Red Hair pirates and their guests filled the evening with white noise. It had been four days since the Battle of the Marineford, and for the first time since hearing about the execution of Ace Shanks came to ask help from his first mate.

It took some willpower from Benn not to sigh, but luckily he had some.

“Somehow I’m not surprised. What did you do this time?”

“It’s not about me.”

“I see the world has ended”, Ben teased with dry humor. 

Shanks didn’t react. And when Shanks doesn’t respond to teasing, Benn knows something is off. Normally he would be able to guess, but with the way last however many days had treated them, there were really too many options.

He waited, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. Shanks would speak in time.

“When my captain died… It was a mess”, he began eventually and Benn felt something uneasy settle in his stomach.

The death of Roger was not mentioned often.

“We were aching, but on fire too, ready to take on the entire world. It was a victory to us, in a way. They lost, Benn, they lost so bad, and back then I couldn’t help uncle Ray and now I can’t help Marco. He won’t eat or sleep, and he won’t listen, that stupid ass just can’t fit it in his head that the world didn’t end with his captain and I don’t know how to help him!”

Shanks ended his rant with a punch on the ship’s wooden railing, riled up enough to hit with too much force and distracted enough to break his skin.

“Fuck! Ow, fuck!” he cursed, glaring at the railing like he might punch it again.

Benn blew out smoke with a sigh. There was too much in there to unpack at once so he did what he was best at, took a practical approach to it.

“Right. I’ll take care of Marco, as much as anyone can”, he said, thinking fast.

He was capable of taking this neatly folded part of worry from the pile of anxiety he knew Shanks sometimes struggled with. So he would.

“Really? How?”

“I’m taking him to your cabin for tonight, so you better make sure we are not going to be bothered. Make sure Jozu and Vista know what’s up, other commanders too, or we will have a second war going on here. Don’t make too much noise about it, just tell them that Marco is taking a break for now and will join them tomorrow morning”, Benn instructed.

“Oh, and yes, I’m kicking you out of our bed and going to sleep in it with your crush, so if you are going to be difficult do it now”, he added, pinning Shanks down with a knowing glance.

“Wait - are you going to have sex with him!? At a time like this?” his captain exclaimed, looking a bit alarmed suddenly.

And just, really, his captain was ridiculous sometimes.

“No, don’t be an ass.”

“Ah, well. I wouldn’t have been difficult, anyway”, Shanks muttered, and Ben eyed him fondly.

“Good to hear. Your keys, please.”

“What? No way - use your own!”

“I will. But I know you, and you are too curious and well meaning for your own good, and Marco can’t take you barging in with an excuse of some kind. I need him to trust me, and for that I need you to trust me too”, Benn said and held out his hand expectantly.

“Aww Benn”, Shanks whined all the while he dug his keys out of his pocket and handed them to his first mate.

“Thank you. And for what it’s worth”, Benn added, “you are helping him. You saved the rest of his crew by stepping in when you did and have arranged for the funeral of his captain and little brother. You shouldn’t need me to remind you of it.”

There was unhappiness in Shanks face then, but it was hidden behind a tight smile. Too public a place, Benn knew, for this conversation. But if his captain was stupid enough to start this in here, then he goddamn well should have been prepared to handle it here.

For the sake of continued goodwill between them Benn lowered his voice before speaking again, when Shanks remained silent.

“You did not fail your captain when Ace died.”

Something wild and violent flashed in the air surrounding them. Haki, uncontrolled and raw. It blew the smoke from Benn’s cigarette away like a blastwave, and then it was gone.

“Don’t”, Shanks spoke softly.

This time Benn did sigh with no pretense of blowing out cigarette smoke. He reached out to touch his fingertips to the bruised hand, and slowly wrapped his fingers around it. He could push the matter, and they both knew that later he would, but today there was no promise of shared bed or slow intimacy after poking at still healing wounds. A certain pineapple headed wreck needed an intervention or a hug, and dealing with Shanks had to wait.

They breathed in silence, Benn waiting and Shanks radiating tension. Finally Shanks exhaled deeply and slid his hand up to grasp Benn’s hand in his.

“Just, please. He needs to rest”, Shanks said at last.

“He needs to rest”, Benn agreed and raised their joined hands to kiss his captain’s bruised knuckles with aching gentleness.

Shanks’ eyes shone at him with that one emotion they did not name out of respect for each other, for there was power in naming things and they had to be free still. Benn held that gaze and took it as the thank you it was.

Then the air shifted and his captain turned to stare blankly at the sea, seeing something Benn never could and Shanks would never share. It didn’t bother him overly much, captains were supposed to see impossible dreams where others only saw water.

But first mates. First mates were supposed to look at their captains and see the entire world, so it wasn’t such a surprise that Marco’s indeed had ended.

* * *

Shanks hadn’t been alone in his observation of Marco’s poor sleeping and eating habits. The days after war had been filled with never ending tasks at best and hazy fewer dreams at worst.

Marco had been in the middle of it, organizing the scattered people with precise commands and a level head, spine made of the sort of steel only the greatest pirates of this age possessed. Benn had been right there next to him, facilitating things from their end. He had seen Marco up before sun every morning, and working away after sundown in the small hours of night.

What Benn had yet to have seen was the man taking a break beyond sitting down to console a brother in need. It was obvious to everyone that this couldn't go on for long, but right now they were short on people who had the guts to confront Marco about it.

Benn prepared for this operation like he would prepare for a battle. One needed a good strategy, trusted weapons, and fortifications to shield themselves from attacks.

So far his strategy consisted of getting the man alone in Shanks’ cabin, feeding him with soup, water, and possibly alcohol, and then pushing his head to the pillow long enough to get him to fall asleep. That in itself would be a victory hard fought, but he was also aiming for a heart to heart and tears. Possibly even hugs or cuddling.

Or a fistfight and heavy sedatives.

He really hoped it wouldn’t come to that. But it never hurt to be as prepared as one possibly could, he mused as he put together some medical supplies in the tightly packed closet where Shanks kept their books. Spare clothing would be available too, since Marco was close enough in size to both Benn and Shanks. Fresh water not only for drinking but cleaning too. A den-den-mushi for emergencies, hidden from sight but in easy reach.

Emptying Shank’s writing desk out of any sensitive material and hiding even the letter knives Benn weighed the pros and cons of changing the bedsheets. Hunting down clean ones would be an effort, but these would likely smell of dirty pirates.

_ Wait, this is stalling. I’m nervous about this, not because I am worried about failing Shanks, but because maybe I can’t help Marco, maybe no-one can. I’m not worried about him for his own sake either. _

He took a breath and considered sitting down for a smoke. It would be nice, but then wasn’t avoidance of discomfort always?

_ I don’t want to know if I would be the same as Marco if Shanks died. _

But he already did. So this stalling had to end here, it was not useful to anyone, and he had something better to do. Folding a tea towel over a tray of food he took one last glance of the room and walked out.

Benn found the familiar yellow tuft of hair from the infirmary pouring over a stack of medical notes. The biggest rush was behind them, the number of critical patients had declined since fortunate ones were stabilised and unfortunate ones were dead. Even so, medics were swamped with work.

It was a near thing, the urgency of the room pressing at Benn, but he refused to feel bad about interrupting the work Marco was doing.

“Hey Marco, could I have a word?”

“Beckman. Come back in ten minutes, I’ll have this folder done by then”, Marco greeted him absently, not even glancing away from his work.

“I’ll wait here if you won’t mind”, Benn said mildly, itching for a smoke.

“Whatever, do as you wish.”

It really was too bad that they were in the infirmary where all recreational activities were strictly forbidden, as it was doubtful that Marco would have patience for a cigarette break. Benn settled down to wait and used his time making an observation of Marco’s current state.

On a good day, he might have fooled Benn if it weren’t for the dead giveaway of bandages wrapped carefully around still healing wounds. As far as Benn understood how devil fruit abilities worked, the phoenix should have been able to heal himself by now. Regeneration was a core element of it, even when the damage was caused under the effects of seastone. Since the cuffs were long gone, it was evident that the healing was dragged down by something else.

It was impossible to guess if Marco was actually vulnerable to things like exhaustion and starvation, but Benn had seen the man eating, drinking, and resting in the past. It made sense to assume it filled the need all living creatures shared, but it was just as likely to be due to the comfort and familiarity of the act.

Setting yourself on fire to avoid taking a nap or eating dinner did seem rather uncomfortable and dramatic. Still, it wouldn’t be the weirdest thing Benn had seen sailing with Shanks.

After the promised ten minutes it was apparent that Marco would not finish the work he wanted to get done. Five minutes in he had been asked to assist with an infected gut wound that threatened the life of one of his brothers. Medical jargon, worried frowns and some blue flames later Marco looked even worse than before but he smiled tiredly and waved away any concerns from the nurse attending to the patient.

Benn had seen enough. He walked next to Marco and lowered his voice so they would not be overheard.

“Look, Marco, we really need to get the supplies sorted out today so your crew can rest before the funeral”, he said and couldn’t afford to feel guilty about how Marcos' expression went blank.

“There is also something I don’t want to talk about in front of others, so we should relocate to have this talk”, he continued.

“Fine”, Marco decided, “but I have to be back here to assist the evening shift.”

* * *

“...so until Fossa and Yasopp get the teams to move supplies from docks to your ship, we have to wait before we can start ordering new shipments”, Benn concluded the report on sailing materials.

Yesterday they had gone over the expenses of funeral arrangements out of Marco’s insistence to cover all of it out from his personal savings so today they had been able to focus on less immediate logistical decisions. It was still a necessary evil, tedious but important work that required technical and financial understanding in addition to hands on knowledge of what it took to keep a massive fleet sailing.

But for today, it was done, it had been boring, and Marco was growing suspicious.

“What is this really about? We could have gone through this stuff like we always do.”

“Shanks has been worried about one of your commanders”, Benn stated evenly.

That caught Marco’s attention fast. The man didn’t react in any tangible way, but suddenly there was less room for mistakes than before. He remained silent. Benn’s fingers itched for a cigarette.

“He won’t eat or sleep properly, he seems to be drowning himself in work and he has also been injured recently. It seems he is putting his own health at risk so that he can take care of his family, and his negligence towards himself is worrying his allies and brothers. Yes, it’s you.”

They were sitting in Shanks’ cabin, Marco on the bed and Benn on the only chair in the room, a creaky old thing that barely fit in the tiny space between the desk and the bed. It had the added benefit of being right in front of the door, blocking Marco from storming out when he stiffened and stood up to frown at Benn.

“Don't pretend to know what’s going on, you are not one of us”, he spat at Benn.

Benn very carefully didn’t rise to that particular bait, didn’t bring up the shared history of their crews, the straw hat that sat on the head of Ace’s little brother, the way Shanks had stared at the sea with blank eyes for hours and confessed that he had known Ace had been Rogers son.

“No, I’m not”, he agreed instead.

The itching had escalated to burning. Gods, what he would have done for a smoke.

“Then leave it the fuck alone, and tell your captain to leave it too.”

“I’m not one of you, so I can call you on your bullshit”, Benn placed the provocation carefully out there, with words and some steel in his voice.

It worked a little like a match catching fire, a flash of sparks and then a steady flame.

“Oh wow, if you are so fucking all knowing then go ahead. Tell me I’m not doing everything I can for my crew”, Marco challenged him with tangible anger.

The fistfight seemed to be a more and more likely outcome. But he had to push, he had to get Marco to lose even a bit of that tedious, horrible, exhausting control he clung to so obviously. He had to break the outer facade in some way to get the man to let out some of that tension, and at this point the only option for that was to aim for his weak spots.

“I tell you there are faster ways to kill yourself, if you don’t have the guts to keep living even to keep alive your father’s legacy.”

That did it, it was the oil spill to the match he had lit earlier. Marco was on him in a blink, fisting his hands into Benn’s shirt and yanking him closer, snarling in his face.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP, my captain just  _ died _ so I get to be a mess if I want to be!” Marco screamed and there was actual fire flickering blue on his shoulders now, and finally it was time to reshape what fire had melted.

“But you are not, except in the overworking and self sacrificing way. You are hurting your family by not allowing yourself to mourn and heal”, Benn told him.

He placed his own hands on top of Marco’s, holding them to his chest and willing the other man to please understand. He tried to hold Marcos gaze but was treated to Marco looking away as the sudden heat cooled to apathy.

“Don’t you get that I have to be strong for them, they need me to be strong now”, he said, frustration and desperation bleeding into his voice.

“I know. But I’m not one of you”, Benn returned Marco’s words back to him.

_ You don’t need to be strong for me _ , he could have said, or  _ you can be weak in front of me and still protect your brothers from your pain _ . He could have said so many things about how he understood what it was like to stand a step to the side and back of someone for years, decades even, and know on an abstract level that there would be no peaceful days of retirement for men like their captains, but that he would never be ready for the day Shanks smiled his last smile.

But he didn’t need to, as Marco heard him anyway. Benn saw him think through all of the meanings those words held and come to some sort of standstill.

“Just for tonight, take a break. If there is an emergency they will let us know, but otherwise no-one is going to bother us until tomorrow morning”, he pressed, pushed, pulled, tipped the scales for Marco with steady strength.

He could feel Marco hesitating, he could feel him fighting against himself and losing, winning, losing, struggling to allow himself this. Both wanting and hating to want it, and Benn knew he came off steady and calm but it hurt him too to see Marco like this.

“You can leave at any point if you need to”, he added, giving Marco an out he hoped the other wouldn’t take.

Finally, the fight went out of Marco, leaving him with hunched shoulders and a downturned head. The hands that had grabbed Benns shirt fell away and Marco just stood there, looking so lost and lonely.

“Just… for tonight, just us?”

“Yes”, Benn agreed easily and finally raised up from the chair to guide Marco to sit back down on the bed.

This time the man didn’t protest or resist, just blinked slowly and kept staring distantly at something Benn couldn’t see. But he drank when Benn pushed a glass of water to his hands, and ate when Benn gave him a bowl of soup with a spoon. He also helped Benn check the bandages around his head and upper body.

They were silent except for the few words from Benn telling Marco to turn this way or that. Marco remained silent but not entirely unresponsive, just so very distant during all of it. When finally Benn asked him if he was ready to fall asleep, Marco frowned with uncertainty and blinked back to the moment.

“No”, he said softly, biting his lip.

Benn could guess why, contemplating for the best course of action for a moment before gesturing to a few bottles sitting on a corner of Shanks’ desk.

“Can you get drunk?”

“Normally? No. Right now?” Marco smiled with his mouth but not with his heart, “Not sure until I try.”

“Sake or rum?” Benn asked, taking out two cups.

“Rum. No, fuck it, it’s not like I won’t think about him anyway. Sake always was his favourite.”

“A toast, maybe?” Benn suggested busying himself with pouring drinks, careful not to put any weight behind his words.

If Marco was ready to drink to his lost family or the time they had shared, memories of the golden days, then he had to decide that for himself. And if Marco was ready to raise a cup for his future, in any way, Benn would be surprised beyond what even the New World had to offer. Still, one could dream.

“Sure, why not”, the man sighed, and when Benn turned around to hand him the cup Marco was meeting his gaze with a lot more present expression.

“To Pops, and Ace obviously. And everyone else. Thatch. To family.”

“To family”, Benn echoed.

They drank. Alcohol went down easy, it was from Shanks’ private stash that Benn had raided, after all. His captain did have a secret skill for picking out the best spirits.

“You know,” Marco began after some time spent in silence, “there was this one time when we found an island where flowers bloomed at night and all the fields were just crowded with butterflies.”

Marco’s trust hit him like a haki enforced punch in the gut. There was a tight feeling constricting his throat and Benn took a swallow of sake to hide it, humming encouragingly around the drink.

“It was back when Oden was sailing with us, and there had been this argument about whether or not he and Vista could use their swords to chop firewood. Vista claimed it was below him and Oden claimed he could do it better, so Pops decided that we would have to settle it before sailing on, so…” 

The evening dissolved into words and stories, shared memories and cups of sake passed between their hands. They settled on the bed next to each other, leaning against the curved wall of the cabin and talked about nothing and everything.

Alcohol warmed their fingers and did appear to have a moderate effect on Marco. The fruit user explained it was due to the regenerating being more focused on his other injuries, going off to explain some half terrible half hilarious mishaps of trying to figure out how to get drunk after gaining his abilities. Benn ended up shaking his head fondly with an exasperated smile. It sounded worryingly similar to sailing with his own crew.

“...and then Thatch asked me to punch him in the face just so he could claim to have been unconscious when Haruta’s diary went missing, so I just told him to man up and face his mistakes. And _ that  _ was when we first started having sleepovers at Pops’ cabin because Thatch was too afraid to sleep in his own bed”, Marco laughed, finishing up another story before he quieted.

“We won’t do that again, either. I wish I could be that for them but I’m just their brother, just me”, he sighed.

“Hmm. Maybe it won’t be the same but you could find a new tradition” Benn suggested.

“No, it’s in the past now and I don’t really need to sneak into Pops’ bed after nightmares. I’m a grown up man these days, who is really independent, doesn’t need hugs or good night kisses and all that shit.”

There were too many emotions crammed into Marco’s voice. It was like he tried to joke but gave up halfway, too weary or maybe just unable to cover the obvious lie. It seemed phoenixes needed hugs too.

“I could hold you”, Benn offered.

“No. I think I’m too… raw for touch like that” Marco declined, struggling with his words, “it would, well. Be too intimate, I guess.”

“And the last person who did that was your father”, Benn guessed, and judging by Marco’s barely there finch he guessed right.

He squeezed Marco’s hand apologetically. Marco sighed.

“That too. I -”, Marco broke off swallowing hard.

He turned his face away, but Benn had already seen the open pain and longing on his face. Regret too, but mostly just a silent and private hurt.    
  


“You don’t have to say it, you know”, he added after a moment of silence from Marco.

It got a tired smile from the man, who turned back to glance at Benn and then tilted his head back.

“You really are far too patient for your own good. I think I have to”, he said staring at the ceiling.

It was Benn’s turn to hum noncommittally.

“There is no one else I could say this to, but I think you get it with how things are with him. I mean, it’s not the same but”, Marco gestured in a vague sort of way that Benn understood to mean the relationship he shared with Shanks.

They really were too alike, Marco with his familial love for his missing captain and Benn with something,  _ something _ , for his very alive and burning one.

“But it’s same enough and different enough. Don’t worry about offending my delicate sensibilities. I’m a pirate after all, right?” he dismissed any of Marco’s uneasiness.

“Whatever. But yes, he held me the night before he died. We talked about it, you know, him dying. He made me promise I would not protect him with my life. I know I wanted to. He must have known too, but he was kind and cruel enough to reject me without giving me an option to argue.”

Tears glittered in Marco’s eyes again. He didn’t bother hiding them, just let that clear liquid overflow like rivers.

“I gave him so much of myself, everything but this one thing I swore he had from the moment he took me under his protection. And he gave me the world, so it really feels unfair to be bitter about this. To be so betrayed that he didn’t treat me like his equal in the end, that I wasn’t good enough for him. I’m hurt and relieved because I gave him all of myself but that one thing and would have given it too. Now I get to keep this life but what will I do with it if I can’t give it to him?”

“You keep it, and maybe let it grow. You are relieved too, remember?” Benn asked.

He took Marco’s hand in both of his and brought it very carefully, gently to his lips and kissed it like he had kissed Shanks’ knuckles earlier the same day. He also gathered Marco in a one armed embrace when the other one finally crumbled to bits.

“Fuck, sorry. Fuck. It feels so wrong to be even a little bit happy about anything”, Marco apologized after he started to calm down from it.

He wiped his face clean with his sleeve and leaned back from Benn who waved away his words.

“Do you think Pops wanted to be protected by me too? But didn’t because I was already his and he knew he could swallow me whole so easily? That I might forget how to be my own person?” Marco asked.

Benn hurt down to his stomach, because he didn’t know, not really, and at times he was afraid that Shanks actually did own him on a level too complete. But he knew some things, like how Whitebeard had stood with Marco by his side and simply trusted him to be there, how he had smiled at Marco when the commander had wielded orders and delegated responsibilities to his brothers like he had been born to do so.

But he knew what it was like to be loved in an unconditional way and recognize the same in others.

“Maybe. Does it matter? You were his first. His most trusted and valued one, his second in command and the one who will carry his name after he is gone. He loved you, not the extension of his own will but you, Marco”, Benn told him, and willed him to hear the truth in it.

Hearing and accepting were two different things.

“Then why the fuck is his love letter to me this mess?  _ I fucking hate him _ for doing this to me! If he really loved me why did he die? I’m his  _ son _ ” Marco snapped.

There was this horribly raw and desperate emotion in Marco’s voice. Grief dressed up as anger, honesty covering itself with lies, half truths that only ever were meant to protect one by hurting others. Words that would hurt the one who said them most.

Words that were not meant to be said.

It was ugly, really, in the way bodies were after violence, but not irreparably so. Benn took it all, because he could and because Marco had to say this all to finally know he didn’t mean any of it.

“He knew you would be here to catch his body after the fall, to carry the family he left behind”, Benn started with a deep breath.

“They really are selfish creatures, captains like ours. They choose us and make us their loyal hounds, give us their ambition and love, share their dreams, fights and bread. And we are made from the start to be the ones most willing to sacrifice ourselves to protect them, only to be asked to take the lead in their stead should we fail to do our duty. But we can only die once, and if you had died protecting him, who would take care of your brothers now if he still was not here?”

It was unfair of him to ask Marco that, to pull his heart with things like responsibility and guilt, but it worked. Marco broke down again, this time burying his face to Benn’s shoulder all on his own, and crying with all of his body and soul.

“I miss him. I miss them all but I miss him most”, he sobbed and Benn held him.

There really wasn’t much else he could do.

Time seemed to matter very little. Benn had laid back on the bed with Marco drawn close to his chest. Hours did go on, but other than the room filling slowly with less and less light there was no way to measure its passage. They drifted in the almost silence, both lost to their own thoughts.

Marco calmed down gradually, desperation in his sobs finally giving way to tiniest involuntary shakes in his breathing. And then with an exhale Marco seemed to decide he was done, shifted to meet Benn’s eyes and held his gaze with newfound calm.

“Thanks”, he simply said with his hoarse voice and swollen eyes.

“You are welcome”, Benn responded, because this was something no-one should dismiss. 

Marco seemed to be at a loss about what to do with that.

“How can you be like, be like  _ that _ .”

Benn just smiled at him. Marco shook his head and relaxed back on the bed, wiping his face.

“Only you, really. Fuck, sorry about all the mess, though I guess it’s sort of your own damn fault.”

“No problem, I’ll make Shanks clean it up”, Benn half-joked.

“Fair, since you seem to be cleaning up after his messes”, Marco acknowledged and shifted again in the circle of Benn’s arms. 

They settled on their sides facing each other. It was quiet in the cabin and Benn very carefully folded away any thoughts of the world outside of the tiny room. The sheets did smell of Shanks, but otherwise they were undisturbed, and Shanks didn’t count since Benn knew he carried his captain’s will with him always, anyways.

“Are you ready to sleep now?” Benn asked.

Marco’s response was a barely there nod of his head, it seemed that the man was fading fast. He looked like he already was asleep despite the mess of tears and snot on his skin. It took some maneuvering but Benn got him out of his clothes and into a clean pair of soft pants before drawing the covers on him. When he made to stand up to change, Marco let out a small sound of displeasure, trying to grab onto him.

Benn hushed him and ended up slipping into the bed behind Marco in just his boxers. It seemed that he had managed to exhaust even the immortal phoenix, as Marco cuddled close to his body and was gone in an instant.

While he was nowhere nearly as tired as Marco, Benn could feel some of the deep exhaustion resonate in his body. He suddenly missed Shanks, had this stupid wistful feeling curling in his chest like cigarette smoke, a hope that he would never ever have to share the feelings Marco was going through.

That he could be the exception to the rule, to either keep his idiot of a captain by his side or at least die before him. Maybe, if he was lucky enough, he could die for him, save him.

_ What a nice fantasy _ , Benn thought and closed his eyes.

* * *

“You know those will kill you”, were Marco’s first words upon waking.

Benn took another drag of his morning cigarette and regarded Marco evaluatingly. He did look better than yesterday, even if his hair was an absolute nightmare and he was clearly in need of a shower.

“Want one?” Benn offered.

“Sure.”

Marco accepted the unlit cigarette from him and lit it up with a flick of blue. The smoke curled up and out of the narrow hatch next to the round window of the cabin. It was early still, both of them long ago used to waking up with sunrise. They were still lying on the bed next to each other, comfortable in silence.

It was borrowed time of course. But as long as the cigarette smoke drifted from their lips, it was theirs.

And when Marco stubbed out the remains of his, the time was out. With a sigh he rose from the bed and began to dress up, frowning at his rumpled clothes and finally folding his sash back in its place despite the disorder. Benn sat up on the bed but didn’t bother standing until Marco was ready and waiting by the door.

Marco held out his hand for Benn to shake. The gesture was oddly formal but somehow fitting, and it felt like an end to something as Benn took the offered hand in his.

“Thank you”, Marco said.

“Tell him to come in when you leave”, Benn responded simply.

Marco nodded and then he was gone, walking through the cabin door into some sort of a sunrise. The door didn’t stay open for long, but it let through the smell of the sea, sounds from his crew and one red haired man.

Strangely, it felt like Benn was the one who had arrived home.


End file.
